‘Twas stench of rotting roses roused
the spirit of disgruntled corpse,
flowers on another’s grave
but none there were on his, of course.

Cadaver frowns in wooden box,
and wonders why no roses, he?
Nothing there but soil and dust,
Perhaps I should get up and see.

Who tends the roses, now I’m gone?
yellow petals, pink or red,
some white as snow, yet tipped in blood,
who tends and trims my flower bed?

A garden back of house I owned,
‘fore illness stole me ‘way from there
and auctioned off my memories.
What’s happened to my flowers, fair?

Ghosts, they do not rise and float
insubstantial from the grave;
they wrestle out of body prone,
they bite and chew and claw and rave.

The toenails rip the lining back,
phantom fingers clack and scrape,
until they pierce corporeal veil,
making good the soul’s escape.

He trudged down once familiar paths,
across the creek and up the hill,
to find beloved garden patch
and see if it was tended still.

Now passing through the iron gate,
then ‘round the back and through the lawn,
his glassy eyes at last beheld
his lovely garden, kissed by dawn.

He bent to touch the bud and stem
and catch the scent of blossom’s head,
but at his touch it shriveled back,
and by his breath it withered, dead.

Now when October comes to call
and moonlight sifts between the trees,
you’ll catch a glimmer of the ghost,
still sad and weeping, on his knees.

​

          --First published by Penumbra